Ghosts
by Madaaaaame
Summary: In the still of the night, one's past can come calling, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse, and for a man who has been through the wringer, the realisation that his life may not be all it could can be a sobering one, especially when there is somebody else involved... This chapter is part of a much larger work, but can stand alone as a one-shot, so here it is.


Seemingly exhausted by the emotional overflow of the past twenty-four hours, Helen slept peacefully at Mason's side, and alone with his thoughts, he considered the aftermath of all that had happened. Despite that inner voice that didn't want to make any concessions to his old ways and lifestyle, he couldn't kid himself any longer. Helen was part of him now, more than just a name or a face. She made him feel as if he had someone who cared and accepted him for what he was, made him feel like everyone else, and for once, he'd never appreciated failing at being unique more. Whatever it was she'd brought to his world, it worked. What troubled him was how he'd been brought albeit willingly, into this state of affairs. He wasn't ready to settle down, turn beige and just turn his back on the freedom from responsibility he'd enjoyed all his life. He was still relatively young, after all.

Pondering this state he'd arrived at, he reflected on the way things were with Helen. She wasn't the clingy type, in fact, she kept mostly to herself when they weren't actually engaged in conversation or other activities, he thought with a slight smile. She gave him plenty of freedom to do what he needed to do, and never seemed to become irritated when he wandered in at any time of the day or night from working up at the studio, but those nights had become less and less over time anyway, he reflected. Nowadays, he seemed to enjoy the same things he always did, as long as she was there doing the same.

He got a strange sense of comfort when she was quietly just THERE, and her presence calmed him like nothing else, to the extent he'd admitted he actually missed her if she wasn't about. But it wasn't just that. Her eyes told him every single time she looked his way, that he pleased her. She couldn't hide it and he didn't wish her to, and part of him wondered if she saw the same when she looked at him. No matter how he tried, though, he found himself unable to totally dispel the disquieting suspicion that eventually she'd be able to tell that he was hiding something from her.

Banishing that unhappy thought as best he could, he turned his mind to thinking of other matters, specifically how he was going to manage it when he and the rest of the band had to set off on their New Year promotional run and Helen held the fort here. Realising he couldn't really even begin to think about this without talking it through with her, he sighed and gave up, finding it hard to imagine how it might affect him, let alone her. Apart from her difficulties in dealing with the attentions of other women, he figured she was as good as he was ever likely to get, something about her was just almost totally non-judgemental which he hadn't expected. He'd really had no idea how easygoing she actually was at the start and he found the fact that she gave him plenty of space quite attractive.

Perversely, he found himself enjoying it when she would return home from wherever she'd been, make her way to the office, greet him warmly and then just leave him be, unless he was in the mood for extracurricular activities. She'd learned she usually only had to wait a few minutes before he'd automatically put away whatever he was working on before making his way over to her and he liked that she never pressured him or forced herself on him when he was clearly occupied, though she wasn't above dropping hints the size of a lorry, which often worked. Of course, when he wasn't occupied, it was often a very different story, and despite his sombre mood, he couldn't hold in a smile. Neither did she seem apprehensive at his occasional explosions, merely waiting till his fury had burnt out a bit before hovering nearby, waiting for him to let her know he needed her. Needed. Such a fucking weak word, and one he still had trouble with.

Most disconcertingly, he still couldn't fathom what he gave her in return. It certainly wasn't a lavish lifestyle, and though they wanted for nothing, they actually lived quite simply, if you ignored some of his more bizarre purchases. If he thought there was a bargain to be had, or that something might come in handy one day, he couldn't resist, with the result that occasionally, a delivery of something quite untoward would turn up and he'd have to find a place to put whatever he'd bought until he could make use of it. He'd given up on buying fast cars when he realised his arse could only be in one at a time, and the upkeep started chewing a hole in his wallet, but since he spent quite a bit of time being cheerfully chauffeured about in Helen's vehicle even the Pontiac was starting to get less use. That was another thing - she happily squired him about, loving any opportunity to drive and he still found it amusing to let her.

But what the hell did she see in him? he wondered. He'd nearly asked her once or twice but thought better of it, not really knowing what she might say. Every other aspect of his life was pretty cut and dried, but when it came to thinking about feelings and all that malarkey, he was a rank amateur. It wasn't as if he didn't HAVE the bloody things, it was just that he didn't have the first clue about how to put them into words half the time. He was never going to master that easy openness that Helen seemed to have.

Why was he feeling so strange? He was glad she was still sleeping, as it gave him time to mull things over in his head, the quiet of the Winnebago having always been another thing he enjoyed. It was all very pleasant having the world at your feet and all, but the solitude he craved meant he guarded his privacy ferociously and that meant not sharing it with anyone else. How then had Helen managed to slip under his guard so easily? Truly, her presence was most enjoyable and she was so unusually quiet of demeanour when she wasn't throwing him into their bed, but maybe he'd been distracted by her increasing lust for more of him. He guessed he'd been blinded by his own desires at first, with things changing gradually over time after that but he had to admit, it was a rare woman who managed to stay more than one night in his bed. Before Helen, there'd truly only been two that counted for anything.

Stacey was the first girl he'd fallen for, meeting her at a local gig where his band had been playing to a rough, drunken crowd. He'd not even noticed her until they were making their way off-stage, lugging their own kit, the four of them exultant that they'd actually be getting paid, even if it was mostly in drinks. It was the start of the way up, he could feel it, and his normal barking and abrasive manner had taken a back seat for once.

She'd wandered outside and struck up a conversation with him the moment he poked his shaggy head out the back door, waiting for their drummer to bring the Transit van around for their gear. Not a bad looker either, dark hair, long legs, rack you couldn't take your eyes off. She'd been the one doing the chasing if he recalled correctly, and the fact that she started turning up at their other gigs made her his first groupie in his eyes, something he found wildly attractive. She certainly had him in her sights and after the second gig she'd lobbed up at, she'd had him in her mouth too.

She was a wild one, almost wouldn't take no for an answer, but luckily, his predilection for calling the shots veered off course occasionally and he'd let her take him over. She'd been absolutely smashed off her face on something and to be honest, she nearly overpowered him in the back of the van, attacking him with such fire he remembered it fondly to this day, but fuck me if the sex wasn't the best he'd had. She couldn't get enough of him and he'd obliged her until he just couldn't move himself one more inch. When she came down from whatever high she was on, she suggested he should try it for himself, hinting that he'd be shagging her from sundown to sunup.

Of course like a red rag to a bull, this made him want to try it, and after that fateful night, she left him with a head full of memories and a creeping, burning sensation in his guts for more, both her and the drug. After that, the slippery slope into almost full-blown amphetamine addiction had been inevitable. She'd bring home some dodgy shit and they'd knock it back waiting for the stunning onset of that invincible feeling, as if everything was in their grasp and life was theirs for the taking.

Over months, the driving need for increasing amounts of the stuff saw them becoming more and more antisocial, former friends now being nothing more than soft touches for a loan so they could score again. He'd come home starving to her dingy flat to find the whole place reeking of bong smoke and the stink of dead all-night parties, and he wasn't too proud to go through the pockets of any unconscious dopeheads if it meant enough for another hit.

One night, they'd both been out, just running from one party to another, Stacey laughing and towing him along behind her, when she'd suddenly stopped dead in her tracks and dragged him into a doorway. He couldn't remember exactly what she'd said, but he recalled what had happened next clearly enough. She'd turned to him, almost panting and taken his hand, pressing it to her throat before huskily telling him to rough her up a bit, it got her hot. He didn't hesitate, his judgement off by more than a few points and in no time, he had her struggling and moaning as he forced himself on her, every whispered word begging him for MORE until he'd found himself almost insensate with lust and fucked her so hard she'd walked funny for a few days afterwards.

After that, she drove him to anger if she couldn't encourage him in other ways, and soon, he was under her spell, her fiery screaming need for barely subdued violence feeding his overwhelming need for dominance. She unlocked his need for physicality and left him with a lasting penchant for rough stuff, something that appealed tremendously but when he was straight, he feared where it might take him.

It wasn't that she was a thief, ruled by the drug, irrational, uncontrollable when under the influence, and didn't give a jot about anything that killed it between them, it was what she said. He suspected she'd two timed him repeatedly, they'd had many fights over it, but always she lured him into her bed and body and his need for control took over. There'd always be tomorrow and she'd sworn he was the only one for her but he had his supicions and he couldn't handle it. They'd had a furious bust up over her latest infidelity, and it hadn't ended well. By now he was used to her assaults on him but this time she hit him with the one weapon he couldn't deflect. He'd been screaming at her, she at him and she'd mocked him, insulted him, told him he was a lousy lay and that was it. He could take the physical but not the derision and her continuing refusal to be loyal to him.

After that, he'd simply walked away, burying his distress in more drugs, putting on a brave face, going through the motions, playing with the band whenever they could find a venue that paid but pretty soon, it all started to fall apart. He'd fucked over too many people and Stoke was a small city, word got around. When his bandmates started making excuses not to play, his furious epithets and angry rants no longer having any effect on them, he snarled out his verbal resignation, grabbed his guitar and spewing taunts at them, stalked off into the night. After a few months of wearing out his already threadbare welcome in various flophouses and even on occasions, in parks or disused buildings, cradling his bass to him like the only friend he had, vowing never to return to his hated father's home, he realised this wasn't how he was going to make it to the top of the pile.

This part of his ruminations always made him shudder silently, rememberhing how he'd vowed to get off the speed, the abortive attempts, the horror of coming down and knowing he'd not be able to sleep for three days, the stink of the gutter all over him, the whole time dismayed that this wasn't how his life was meant to be. The day he realised he had nowhere to go, nothing to his name except his guitar, and no way of getting the next hit, he hit rock bottom. It wasn't so much a conscious decision to kick the habit as it was a necessity for survival, so going to ground in the last place he knew he'd be safe, he returned to Stacey's flat, hugged his bass to his side and let his body learn to live again.

If he had to go through that again it'd kill him, and to her credit, even though she'd smashed his ego into nothing with her sharp words, she was there for him as he sweated out his panic attacks, suffering the deprivation and subsequent depression like nothing he'd ever known before, the exhaustion flattening him. Those first days had been nothing like the ones that followed, his raging hunger and searing temper at his fierce need to seek out the drug that made him feel invincible, in control, faster, better, stronger.

Unable to sleep, he lashed out at her, almost crying with the need for this hell to be over, enduring it somehow, until the blinding desperation slowly began to fade and he found he could at least function again albeit with furious mood swings and a temper that boded ill for everyone around him. The day he'd woken to find Stacey fucking some guy inches away from him was the day he called it quits for good, and cradling his bass, walked out, shaky but alive.

Just reliving this experience in his head all over again was enough to make him wince. After that, he'd sworn off any kind of relationship, taking his pleasure where he found it. Just before that fateful day when he and a few cronies had decided to get hold of some instruments at a five-finger discount, he'd been holed up at the pub while they planned their urban raid on a small, local music store. He figured they could make it if they just had the right gear, but having no visible means of support meant that doing this in the usual manner was not even remotely on the cards. His sum total of possessions included his battered but much-loved bass guitar which was instrumental in his plans to make the big time, and the decrepit motor home he'd recently bargained hard for so he could get the hell out of his father's home and enjoy what little serenity his lifestyle afforded.

The cheekily grinning barmaid had drawn his attention when he sidled up to the bar in hopes of wheedling a free pint out of her in exchange for some honeyed but rather dodgy compliments. Seeing straight through him, she told him to get a job so he could at least pay his way honestly, without the need for hanging around the dregs she saw him with right now. Initially stung by her words, he'd been about to give her a mouthful when she pushed a brimming glass towards him and said "I got faith in ye, laddie, this one's a celebratory drop, since ye should know when ye're hanging about a bunch of losers and get a bit of wind up your tail to do better."

Not what he was expecting, but a drink was a drink, though afterwards, he'd made a point of catching her eye as he walked out the door for the night and shooting her a confident smile. He'd announced quite casually that one day, he'd hit the big time and he'd remember the people that helped him get there, to which she'd retorted wasn't it time he was tucked up in bed if he was intending to dream that high? Taking his chances and running with the moment, he growled back that he always dreamed better in someone else's bed, raising one eyebrow when she cooed back that she thought her bed was a right fine one to go hunting good dreams in. After that, he hung about, waiting until closing time, detaching himself from the shadows on the doorstep to gallantly take her arm and escort her safely home.

Sheilagh proved to be a fiery redhead not only in appearance but in temperament, and before too long, they were seeking each other out on a regular basis for more than conversation and free beer. She had a bantering, mothering way about her, something he guessed she used to advantage behind the bar with any number of drunken patrons deserving of some good, honest advice about when to leave and get theirselves home to their loving families.

Taking him under her wing was the next step and before long they were both dreaming big in her narrow bedsit, curled against the bitter winter's freeze, bricks heated in the fireplace at their feet, their world only as big as the circles they moved in, mostly content, but Mason's restlessness could not be stilled. Always looking for that opportunity, that big break, he'd talk up how it would be, all the time looking forward, and then he'd found himself before the magistrate, a conviction of dangerous driving and grievous bodily harm hanging over his head, suddenly finding himself responsible for the life of the victim of his latest escapade.

Miraculously Sheilagh hadn't abandoned him despite knowing he'd ramraided a hard working man's establishment and nearly killed the shopkeeper's nephew, but it was close. Somehow she stuck by him, and if not for her, he probably would have lost patience with his charge long before that fateful day when he'd been showing off and his inattention had resulted in another vehicular disaster, but one that had results he could only have dreamed of in the happiest of beds.

After that, things had continued to improve, mostly because suddenly he found himself with a singer who actually had talent and who seemed inordinately grateful that Mason had woken him from his comatose state, despite the fact that it was Mason who had put him there in the first place. Sheilagh had been his greatest supporter and without her easy conviction, he'd have probably never had the faith in himself to aim as high as he did. Though he'd vowed he'd never be a wage slave, he'd managed to scrape up enough of a living doing some rather odd jobs and the odd dodgy one and she'd made sure he always had a full belly each morning and somewhere to come home to at night when the attraction of the lonely Winnebago was at its lowest ebb.

It was this period that Mason realised was one of the happiest of his life, having enough to get by on, an easygoing woman behind him and a plan forming in his head with his new fellow musician, Stuart. Over months he coaxed and bullied the young man into seeing his dream through his own deepset almost jet black eyes and before long, he'd somehow managed to finagle his finances so he had enough to make an offer on a piece of real estate that nobody seemed to want but in which Mason saw only enormous potential.

Nowadays, everything he had was funnelled into his dream of having a band that would rock the world, make him a household name and have him rolling in cash to boot. Everything focussed on his future, he slipped further and further away from his present, not seeing the hurt in Sheilagh's eyes every time he vanished into the night, leaving her alone, while he followed his dream yet again, not even thinking that perhaps she might have a place in it.

It was slow but inevitable, and though he missed her company, every waking moment was for the music, his search for the perfect drummer taking up all of his time, and the night he never went back to Sheilagh's tiny bedsit forgetting it was her birthday and she'd been looking forward to him being there was the night it all ended. She was upset he knew, but hid it well, her hurt only showing when she raised her deep green eyes to his mismatched ones, knowing that in his heart there was not enough room for two.

They didn't even fight about it, they just slipped apart, and though he had many a night where he felt a tug of loss to realise that he'd had it incredibly good with her, it wasn't enough to keep him from his never-ending search for fame and recognition. When it got too hard to see her downturned eyes and no longer smiling face at his local, he waited by the door for her one last time, their parting sorrowful and he not unaffected and after that, he started drinking at a different pub.

That was it for Sheilagh and he until a few years after his band had finally found its star drummer and guitarist and begun the meteoric rise to success he'd hungered for for so many years. He'd intentionally gone back, feeling a little uncomfortable in his new jacket and boots, but determined. She'd seen it in him and now he wanted to show her he'd made it. When he saw her at the bar, laughing and smiling at the regulars around her, he felt a pang at what he'd left behind and nearly left right then, the feelings welling up inside him taking him by surprise. It was her chance look to him that made him stop, to see this through and taking in her startled expression, he ambled over, pushing his way to the bar, the cocky grin on his face hiding what he really felt but would never reveal in a million years.

Her face when he spoke to her, her almost shy smile as she laughed with him, sharing his success, everything warming him strangely, a melancholy knowledge that this would probably be the last time he laid eyes on her. Everything was different for him now and looking back was not an option. He didn't wait until last drinks to take his leave, but he did press something into her hand and tell her he said he wouldn't forget, right? He'd hoped she wouldn't be offended, he wanted her to take it, use it for herself, the amount on the cheque nothing compared to what he earned this month, but more than enough to give her some comforts if she would accept it.

When he'd growled "Have a drink on me, love, you helped me get there," she looked down at the piece of paper in her hand then back at him and with a watery smile that made him ache, whispered "This is a fine dream and all, Mason, but I don't know if I dare dream this big." His hand over hers, folding it over the paper, he growled back "Your dreams were always more colourful than mine, go live them," and then he'd fixed her with his eyes one last time, her tiny nod all he wanted to see, and then he was gone, out into the night again, leaving her to dream her life while he went about the business of living his.

Movement at his side, jarring him out of his reminiscing. Helen, waking, sleepily looking up at him with those startlingly blue eyes of hers, a soft smile tilting at the corners of her mouth, and without even realising it, he smiled back, banishing the thoughts in an instant, her face showing him her greatest gift, her unabashed desire to immerse herself in his world, to walk beside him if he'd have it, to offer whatever she had to give that he needed, and to simply enjoy it.

"I had such a nice dream just now," she murmured, running her hand sleepily up his arm, "I didn't want to wake up." Rolling onto his side, Mason rumbled "Funny you should say that, I just woke up myself," before lowering his mouth to hers, the feel of her in his arms exactly what he needed right now to scatter the ghosts of his youth like mist at the rising of the sun.


End file.
